


under the starry night sky (i look into your eyes)

by azure7539



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragon AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 17:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15151907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure7539/pseuds/azure7539
Summary: “I only did what you paid me to do,” he said, securing his payment and taking out a slip of parchment from another pocket.It was worn around the edges, the parchment, the folded creases on it deep and chafed from repeated opening and closing. The drawing on it was simple but distinct, highlighting all the key details.“Have you seen this wyvern?” he asked, eyes boring into the village head, quiet in all its frosty exterior.—In a steampunk society where dragons still exist, one person is out seeking for revenge, the other a friend, and the last one is just lost.





	under the starry night sky (i look into your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me to post this story—it's a project that always makes me feel like I'm in a little over my head, but you guys make me feel better about it. Shout out to all the betas I have dragged into this: [xphil98197](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphil98197/pseuds/xphil98197), [Castillon02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02), [Linorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien), [Only_1_Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth), and [Opalescentgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/pseuds/opalescentgold). You guys are the best, and I can't thank you all enough for helping me out with this story. If you haven't read all these lovelies' works, then you're missing out—please head to the included hyperlinks to their AO3 accounts, and you can thank me later. 
> 
> Now, onward to the actual story!

The thing about revenge was that people never told you that, instead of burning rage or icy hatred, you could also feel nothing at all.

He hadn’t felt much for a number of years now. Sympathy and being able to understand and connect to others’ suffering aside, he didn’t personally set aside emotions for himself, for his own circumstance. In a way, that was probably for the best—feeling too much for himself was no different than drinking poison right then, what with weakening his resolve and disrupting his current life prospects.

He now functioned on a skeletal routine, subject to change depending on the situation, went through the motions on a daily basis, and focused the rest of his energy on paving a pathway to vengeance.

Factually, this was the most effective road to guarantee him his desired result and eventual conclusion.

There was a science to his method, mostly. He knew he wasn’t going to succeed just by charging in headfirst toward the enemy. He wanted to be sure that he would get his ultimate revenge, which meant that dying afterwards, after having obtained everything he wanted, was the  _ only _ acceptable outcome.

Therefore, he trained. He trained and honed his skills and made sure he was ready when the time came, drafting plans upon plans of ways to achieve his goals and backups for them even—just in case.

 

* * *

The summoning circles glowed golden when they appeared hovering above his palms, opening two black holes in their wakes as he reached in and pulled out his long swords. The beast had been writhing from the onslaught of daggers and bullets, and the bellows of its cries had gone hoarse enough that he could tell the end was just in sight.

He took off dashing forward in successive sprints, zigzagging to avoid the columns of compressed skin-boiling steam directed at him from that snarling snout. The vines holding the wounded creature down were gradually snapping, and he had to calculate his timing just right, lest it escape and ruin the past few days’ efforts.

The lindworm’s skin was reptilian and smoother than an actual dragon’s scales. The difference made it drastically slippery in comparison to its brethren but actually penetrable on the back as well, and the sharp blades of his swords lanced through the joints of its two legs almost sweetly.

Blood spurted out as the monster screeched and roared, slumping to the muddy ground with its limbs rendered immobile.

He had actually accounted for the fact that the pain would drive it into going berserk using the last remaining ounces of possessed strength, but when the tail whipped out of its constraints and lunged at him much too fast, he didn’t have the necessary time to jump out of the way. The strong muscles of what was essentially the lindworm’s third appendage wrapped around his ankle, tightened to a vice-like grip, and flung him at the full speed of a flying arrow toward the edge of the forest until he crashed into a tree trunk with a sickening  _ crunch _ .

The force of the collision alone knocked the air out of his lungs and whatever broken-bones-in-organ shoved a spatter of blood out along with it. He fell to the ground with a ragged gasp, the world spinning around him like sloshed wine in a bottle. There was a reason why there were so few in the business of dragon-hunting.

The higher the reward, the more likely it was that you wouldn’t live through the hunt to receive it.

But, well, it wasn’t as if he cared about the mortality rates of this profession anyway.

Another screech from the lindworm dragged his scattered attention back to where it should have been still. It worked to hunters’ advantages that these creatures rarely ever shared territories with others of their kind, possessive as they were, and so when the time came to bring them down, there would be none running to their aid, no matter how blood-curdling the cries could be. 

It was the price of solitude.

With another scratchy intake of breath (a couple of broken ribs, possibly a punctured lung), he pushed himself to his elbows and narrowed his eyes to concentrate. The beast was still trying to wriggle free, but thankfully hadn’t yet because of those long swords still wedged in the joints of its only two legs, keeping it pinned down.

The desperate struggles would only make it lose more blood regardless, and so he waited, whispered spell at the ready as he counted the seconds, the rhythm of motions, in his mind.

_ There _ .

On the verge of what would become its last roar, the lindworm’s jaw sprang open just as dozens of vines charged past its poisonous teeth and mouth, stuffed full down its throat until they reached the organs inside and twined around them in a deadly squeeze.  

A slow and painful way to go, but for a creature that had attacked unprovoked and killed almost everyone who happened to tread these woods, he didn’t honestly care.

He never did. Not with the searing screams beating against his eardrums and the pulsating scent of burnt flesh pungent and nauseating deep in the recesses of his nostrils every time he closed his eyes.

He would never stop killing these things until he got his revenge… and by then, he would probably be dead anyway, ending this cycle once and for all.

Blood was trickling down his nose by the time he finished, strained from having to keep reinforcing the spell in his injured state. Even towards the end, the dragon had fiercely fought back, dislocated jaw and all, killing off many of his thorny vines in the process with its lethal steam. But it was dead now, lifeless on the muddy ground where it lay, and that was as good as it was going to get.

-

-

His gait was funny when he returned to the village, but for someone nursing two broken ribs and a freshly popped back shoulder, he supposed he still looked a sight better than how he actually felt.

The villagers were gathered at the carved out entrance in the feeble wall they had built to ‘ward out evil,’ faces white as a sheet up to the point where they turned green at the sight of the head still dripping a bit of blood clutched in his hand. The brutality of cutting off a dragon’s head wasn’t something he normally practiced, but as it had been a requirement of these people, who was he not to oblige them?

No one breathed a word. They rarely did for the first few minutes.

“We… We heard the screeches,” the village head managed after a few thick swallows and jumped when the hunter laid the head down next to his feet, perhaps fearful that it would somehow come alive and eat him whole.

He said nothing when the middle-aged man handed over a pouch full of gold, nodding only his acknowledgement.

“T-Thank you.”

As if only waiting for the mayor to break the dam of silence,  they  all began thanking him, some even tearfully so, and his only saving grace was that they were all a little too afraid to go near his bloodied form to swarm around him.

“I only did what you paid me to do,” he said, securing his payment and taking out a slip of parchment from another pocket.

It was worn around the edges, the parchment, the folded creases on it deep and chafed from repeated opening and closing. The drawing on it was simple but distinct, highlighting all the key details.

“Have you seen this wyvern?” he asked, eyes boring into the village head, quiet in all its frosty exterior.

The older man swallowed, retrieving his spectacles to trace in front of the picture.

“No…” he replied after a moment, shaking his head apologetically. “I don’t believe I have.”

Without another word, the hunter turned toward the gathered villagers as well, showing them the content of the parchment. Unfortunately, however, like their chief, none of them had ever sighted this particular creature before.

“There’s a city, northeast from here on—" a woman began, licking her lips as she pointed her finger to indicate the general direction she was talking about. “It’s about a fortnight’s walk away from here… twelve days if you’re fast. Many travelers gather there to replenish supplies, so maybe you’ll have better luck there?”

The tight clench of his jaw didn’t quite ease as thoughts swirled in his mind. Eventually, though, he conceded a single, jerky nod.

“Thank you,” he said, folding the parchment and tucking it away once more, then started backing away.

“You can’t possibly be thinking of leaving now. You’re injured!”

“I’ll be fine.” He spared them one last, brief glance. “Take care of yourselves.”

And with that, the hunter was off, just as quickly as he’d had when he had first appeared to take on the bounty assignment.

 

* * *

The city of Bremwil bustled, the constant chatter marred by the occasional cries from here and there, but with how vast the entire vicinity was, not many of its inhabitants seemed bothered by occasional instances of public violence. It happened practically every day.

Initially, he had loosely planned on coming here, but after that unexpected encounter with the lindworm (not that he regretted helping those people, no), he would definitely have to stop by this place to gather more supplies. He was running low on bullets, gears, and other necessary items.

There were train tracks leading up to Bremwil’s center from other cities and towns close by, all connected in a rough public transportation system that spanned the land. But for villages like the one he had just been in (remote, too near to the swamp area, and with not enough population to mark it as ‘important’ in the eyes of those in power), walking was still the best and most accessible method to get from point A to point B. 

It was not so much that he minded walking, preferring solitude himself so he could do whatever he wanted, but more of how he supposed they could’ve put more effort into this, the Ruler and their room full of shuffling courtiers, that is. 

“Hunter?” 

He looked up from where he was inspecting a rifle, an eyebrow arched. 

“Just wondering,” the woman, who was the owner of this weaponry shop, shrugged nonchalantly despite the interested glint in her eyes. “That’s a nice material you got there.” She nodded at his cloak—new, with a nice buffed shine. “Any leftover you got lying around?”

It was made out of the hide of the lindworm he had killed, so he wasn’t surprised that it had caught her attention. There had been a reason why he had chosen the specific method that he’d had on the beast, after all, if nothing else then to preserve whatever little posthumous use it had to him. 

Usually, it would take longer than a fortnight to successfully cure and tan a hide of any normal animal. However, with some magical aids and accelerants, and this being the skin of a dragon with some properties resembling that of a regular serpent, he had managed to hasten the process. 

“No,” he said. “I only got what I needed.” 

She hummed, “Shame,” and handed over his purchases, all sorted and wrapped up professionally. “Do drop by again when you need something.” 

There was a queer flash in her expression, something close to quiet pity, one that he was all too acquainted with ( _ “Aren’t you too young to be doing this?” _ ), but he ignored it altogether and took the package, paying her the due amount. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

Another point in time, perhaps earlier than this, he would’ve been offended by that, but as it was, more and more, he found that he didn’t care anymore. Not really. 

All dragon hunters had a death wish, that much had never been a secret, and he was no exception.

-

-

By the time he had finished another round of information gathering, the night had dwindled on deep into the vast expanse of darkness beyond this tavern’s door, and the occupants themselves had wasted away—too drunk, too withered, and too worn to carry on the glory of loud discussions and mead-inhaling galore. 

Side-stepping an incapacitated body strewn across the floor, he tapped gently on the polished wood counter behind which the tavern-owner was standing, her back turned to him, to quietly capture her attention.

The ready smile she had on as she turned and greeted him was weary, and he didn’t blame her. It had been a particularly rowdy night, even by the usual tavern standards. 

“A pint of mead, please,” he said. Just one for the night since he didn’t want to disturb her closing and resting. But then again, he rarely ever exceeded that number anyway these days. “Sweet.”

It was then that another presence strolled up right next to him, stopping at a distance that was not too close but still bordered on his personal space, which made it feel deliberate—and maybe it was. 

“One for me as well,” the newcomer rumbled, his tone deep and gruff. “But dry.”

Despite what his stature and well-built physique might suggest, this man was surprisingly light-footed, nearly silent as a whisk of wind, barring the slight rustles of fabric from his short cloak as the disturbed air settled around him. A fighter, perhaps, from the light leather armor he was clad in, but he had no discernible primary weapon at first glance, and this was a slightly troublesome realization to come to. 

Coupled with the subtly charged air surrounding the man, this was quite certainly no ordinary, physical-combat oriented fighter. 

The woman nodded and quickly got on with fetching them their orders. 

“That’s a nice set of lindworm hide you have there. Haven’t seen one done this clean in a while.” 

He turned sharply to the odd man, taken aback by the sudden straightforwardness. The recurring topic sort of got on his nerves, but then again, anyone with a little expertise would be drawn to the cloak, being the first noticeable detail on him.

Didn’t mean he had to like it, though.

“Haven’t had a stranger strike up a conversation with me without so much as an introduction in a while, either,” he quipped, not missing a beat. People with good sensibility and working self-preservation usually elected to stay away from him after all, and for good reasons. 

A smile bloomed across said stranger’s lips, nudging at the spiderweb of healed burn wounds on the one side of his face that dipped down some toward his neck. He seemed amused by the wry tone rather than deterred. 

“Apologies,” said the man, even if he didn’t sound at all that apologetic. “Basic interactions aren’t really my thing, I’m afraid.” He extended a hand. “I’m Alec.”

He considered the hand for a second, let a sigh rattle out through his nostrils in a soft breath, and took it briefly. 

“Q.”

-

-

The way Alec saw it, the boy was almost strange in the subtle, feral intensity that burnt in the pits of his eyes, which brewed like hungry embers waiting for a chance of timber to spark them alight… and explode. He felt much older than he appeared to be, the weariness manifesting in the circles under his eyes and the stiff hold of his shoulders, rigid with the barely contained order of his chaos.

He had shed blood (it was one of those things that was hard to bypass, at least to someone like him); his almost delicate hands had known their fair share of brutality, but there was also something else underneath all of that as well. Something buried deep inside… 

Like a seed of life.

Their handshake lasted no more than a second, the motion of his— _ Q’s _ —withdrawing hand crisp like the crack of a whip. 

He was impatient with the unknown, vigilant and cautious, that much was obvious, and disliked mystery, even though he himself had it wrapped around him like a second skin.

It was a routine surprisingly familiar, and Alec found the corners of his lips quirking up subconsciously, a flare of something squeezing in the cavity of his chest. 

“Ah. The infamous dragon hunter.” 

Honestly, those in the know were all well aware of his reputation: young, ambitious, ruthless, and merciless. Circulating rumors said he was probably the youngest  _ trusted  _ hunter alive; sprang out of nowhere one day and began taking up assignments as he tore a trail across the land. Because of course any amateur could claim to be a hunter, but a hunter that could manage to complete the required jobs and still remain alive after was of a different breed altogether. 

But Q was essentially a rogue. He did not join any hunter association, did not reap any benefits or certain privileges from being an ‘officially licensed’ hunter (the term itself was loose, given that each association had its own so-called license), nor did he connect much with other hunters of his kind. 

He was the paradox of the dragon-hunting community. 

Even so, never once had Alec suspected him to be  _ this _ young. He was rather leaning toward the slim and lithe side as well, despite having hidden the fact under his dragonhide cloak and using a type of well-cut, flowing silk for the outer layer of his outfit.

“I thought you’d be…” Alec began, and Q’s eyes narrowed in an instant, expectant. The sheer challenge in those green eyes was rather refreshing after so long. “Older,” he finished. 

Q snorted in disdain just as their drinks arrived and grabbed his pint of sweet mead without hesitation, fully intent on turning sharp on his heel to get as far away from this conversation as possible.

According to the rest of those rumors, if such things should hold any sort of accuracy at all, another peculiarity about Q was that he had been searching doggedly for one thing and one thing alone for the whole five years he had been active: a dragon.

The one dragon he absolutely had to kill.

“Show me that drawing of yours,” he said to Q’s retreating back, which stiffened the second he heard what Alec calmly added next: “Maybe I’ll be able to tell you a thing or two.”

-

-

The sweet mead tasted of honey and varying hints of fruits throughout, with a small punch at the end that really appealed to his palate. However, his brain didn’t register that right then as he stared intently over the rim of his tankard at Alec, who sat opposite of him across the table they had chosen to occupy, perusing the parchment Q had handed over.

Even like this, he still couldn’t observe any type of primary weapon on this strange man, other than the peek of what was a single dagger—much too small and short to provide actual protection during serious combat—strapped to the side of his thigh. 

Whatever it might be—why this Alec person had approached him, and what his motive behind it was—Q just wanted the information, any shred of it at all, because not many people so far had been able to provide him with any, and it had been almost a year of that unknown already. 

“Well?” Q prompted as the other man lowered the drawing down.

“Why do you want to kill it?” 

The question had been casual, accompanied by a light smile, and that made his eye twitch. He had expected answers, not more questions about unrelated topics. 

“What does it matter to you?” he snapped back, tired from a long day and an even longer journey that had preceded his arrival to Bremwil. 

“Because every action, down to even the most mundane and spontaneous, has a reason for it, let alone an… obsession like yours,” was Alec’s reply. It didn’t sound mocking, just quiet in its mere interest. There was something cryptic in his gaze that made Q impatient, however (he had neither the time nor inclination for any sort of game); but when he reached out, ready to snatch back what was his, the man continued, in all seriousness now, “I have seen it.” 

Q clenched his jaw. “Are you sure?” 

“A wyvern that has widespread  _ red  _ markings on its throat and chest, with one amber eye and the other bright blue?” Alec raised an eyebrow. “Of course I’m sure.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think!


End file.
